


They're Just A Road Map

by JinxedAmbitions



Series: When Paths Converge [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22093741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinxedAmbitions/pseuds/JinxedAmbitions
Summary: Jaskier's fascination with Geralt's scars are more jest than obsession, though even Geralt cannot deny the genuine concern Jaskier has for his well being.  It is especially difficult to ignore when Jaskier insists upon helping him tend a new wound that may or may not be entirely Jaskier's fault.  All blame aside, Jaskier's tender touch is distracting...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: When Paths Converge [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1590289
Comments: 20
Kudos: 1243





	They're Just A Road Map

“Is this one new?” Jaskier asked, touching Geralt’s shoulder lightly where a new scar did indeed reside. New in the general scheme of things. It hadn’t been there the last time they’d crossed paths, but it was by no means fresh at this point.

Geralt grunted in response. It was better not to encourage Jaskier. Though no amount of discouragement had stopped the man. Geralt had thought they’d part ways when they’d arrived at the village, but despite pointing the way to the tavern, Jaskier had followed him to the inn then into his room.

“No, that’s definitely new. How did you get it? Striga? No, no. Another Selkiemore. Fang got you as it swallowed you down... _no…_ ” Jaskier didn’t give Geralt a moment to get a word in edgewise, but it was just as well. He had no intention of answering the question.

Geralt did his best to ignore Jaskier as he studied the current wound he was nursing. A beast had caught him in the side in a moment of distraction...caused by none other than Jaskier. 

“A fair maiden stabbed you when you left her heartbroken? No? Her husband? No? I suppose that only happens to me…”

The scar had actually only been a small nick, but due to lack of clean water, it had festered far more than it had any right to, and it had left a scar. It wasn’t nearly as impressive or eye catching as the other scars that littered Geralt’s body, but for some reason Jaksier’s eyes had picked it out almost immediately.

That left the question of whether Jaskier had memorized all of Geralt’s scars in the instances that he’d seen Geralt without clothes. It was improbable. Geralt had more than he could really keep track of himself, and he’d experienced all of the excitement of getting them. However, Jaskier was sitting beside him on the cot prodding at the white scar tissue like it might tell him Geralt’s secrets without the Witcher having to utter a single word.

“I’ve got it. Big fanged creature with giant wings...and...and talons! She must have sunk her talons into you in the midst of battle, but you hacked off her leg with a swift blow of your sword,” Jaskier proclaimed, leaning back and resting his hands on his thighs. 

Geralt shrugged, twisting his body to get a better look at the scored fleshing trying to discern whether it would need stitching, and whether he could plausibly reach it if it did.

“ _Or_!” Jaskier brought his hand up, pointing at nothing in particular. Then he immediately began to study the scar again. “A fang. A vicious monster sank its fangs into you, but you rolled your frankly unfair shoulder muscles and broke the tooth right off. Had to dig it out yourself. Yes, I can definitely work that into a song.” Jaskier squinted into space as his fingers tapped a rhythm against Geralt’s shoulder. 

Geralt reached up and snatched Jaskier’s hand mid tap, squeezing his fingers just enough to threaten.

“Right, no touching, unless your need me to rub a salve onto any sore body parts that you can’t reach yourself...right right, _not_ touching,” Jaskier said, attempting to pull his fingers free as Geralt increased the pressure.

“You’re just making things up,” Geralt said, releasing Jaskier’s hand and watching as Jaskier did little to put any actual space between them. The man had no sense of self preservation.

“Well, it’s not like you’re all that forthcoming on the details. I work with what I have, and I do a fine job of it, I might add. People are still raving about the ballad about that vengeful spirit that followed you into the brothel and possessed the poor maiden…”

“That didn’t happen either.” Geralt wasn’t even sure why Jaskier followed him about when most of the time his songs were complete fabrications. 

Jaskier rolled his eyes, picking up the clean linen Geralt planned to dress his most recent wound with. He stood up and walked over to the jug of water resting on the table. He poured it into a bowl and dropped the length of linen into the clean water. 

“I know. Yennefer finally sank her claws into you in the literal sense,” Jaskier said, snapping his fingers. “I’m sensing a new verse for Her Sweet Kiss…”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed. 

The truth was Jaskier’s playful game of guessing the source of Geralt’s scars didn’t particularly bother him. People always asked. It seemed that no sooner was sex over, and people thought that it was time to ask where his scars came from. Worse were the people who’d heard Jaskier’s songs and tried to match his scars to the songs. 

“You know, you could always just tell me how you got the scars rather than leaving it up to my imagination,” Jaskier suggested, squeezing most of the liquid out of the cloth before carrying it back to the cot where Geralt sat. 

“Hmm.”

“Right. That would be too much like friendship or something you find equally distasteful,” Jaskier said, lightly slapping Geralt’s hands away from his own wound. 

Geralt was surprised as Jaskier knelt in front of him, studying the wound as the linen cloth dripped onto the floor between them. Geralt held still as Jaskier carefully touched the skin on either side of the torn flesh, clucking his tongue probably without even realizing he was doing it. The bard made plenty of noises that had no purpose other than to fill the void. It had become almost endearing, though Geralt would never admit it.

Jaskier lifted the wet cloth and blotted it against the slowly oozing wound. His hands were steady and gentle, and it was in complete contrast to Jaskier’s constant state of motion and chatter. 

Geralt grunted as the cloth caught on the crusting blood that clung to the edges of the wound, but Jaskier didn’t even pause in his ministrations. 

“It looks awfully frightening, but it’s not very deep, and the bleeding is more from you trying to twist to get a look at it than anything particularly serious. Looks like you’ll live to fight another day, Geralt,” Jaskier said, carefully cleaning away the dried blood and any dirt surrounding the wound.

“Hmm.”

“You’re downright chatty tonight. Did that terrible beast cast a spell on you, or maybe it’s claws were dipped in poison!” Jaskier began to hum a melody, and Geralt knew a song was likely to follow.

Geralt sighed. “I was going to use that linen to dress the wound.” Changing the subject rarely deterred Jaskier, but it was worth a shot.

“Nonsense. A scratch like this doesn’t need a dressing. Unless you plan to do some acrobatics that will reopen—” Jaskier looked up into Geralt’s eyes, then back at the now pink mass of used linen. “You wouldn’t happen to have another length lying around?” he asked sheepishly.

Geralt sighed. “My bag.”

“See, no trouble at all. Now, your wound will be clean and dressed...if only the rest of you would follow suit…” Jaskier cringed, looking down at one of the many stains covering Geralt’s clothes. 

“No one asked you to help…”

Jaskier scoffed, cleaning away the last of the dried blood and walking back to the basin across the room. He rinsed the linen until it was stained only the faintest pink then he returned and resumed his position on the floor between Geralt’s legs. Jaskier was less gentle as he used the water-laden cloth to rinse the wound. He rested one of his hands on Geralt’s thigh as he worked, and all of Geralt’s attention was drawn to the contact.

Jaskier seemed completely oblivious to his hand’s proximity to Geralt’s crotch, nor how he moved it higher as he reached the top edge of the wound. Unfortunately, Geralt was acutely aware of Jaskier’s talented fingers digging into his thigh in order to give himself leverage.

Geralt cringed as water dribbled down his side, sinking beneath the waist of his pants while most of it dripped onto the cot and sank into the sheets. The whole situation was more uncomfortable than the wound itself.

Jaskier was undeterred, flushing the wound until he was satisfied that it was truly clean. The hand on Geralt’s thigh continued to squeeze and inch higher as Jaskier worked, and Geralt became more and more aware of Jaskier’s every move and breath. 

“Am I hurting you? You’re breathing sort of funny,” Jaskier asked, pausing to squint up at Geralt. His fingers were practically on top of Geralt’s cock at that point, and Geralt was about ready to snap.

“You have a little something. If I could just…” Jaskier said, still seemingly oblivious to the game he was playing. He raised his hand from Geralt’s thigh to point, but Geralt caught him by the wrist. “You know it wouldn’t hurt you to take a little better care of yourself. Perhaps if you bathed a little more frequently, townspeople might not be so—” 

Geralt glared, squeezing Jaskier’s wrist tightly. 

“So, that’s resounding no. I’ll just be getting that extra linen now…” Jasker pried Geralt’s fingers open with his free hand, dropping the sodden cloth into Geralt’s lap.

Geralt frowned down at the wet mess that had replaced Jaskier’s hand as Jaskier scurried across the room to Geralt’s bags. Sighing, he lifted it, then brought it up to wipe away the grim and guts that still covered his face. Jaskier wasn’t wrong, even if his methods might be overly friendly. He felt something peel away from his cheek as he wiped. Pulling the cloth back and looking down, he noticed a sizeable piece of gore. 

Jaskier was standing a few feet away watching him silently when Geralt looked up. 

“What?” Geralt asked as Jaskier continued to stare. 

Jaskier smiled, shaking his head. “Nothing. I have the linen when you’re ready.”

“I can do it myself.” Geralt wasn’t about to let Jaskier get so close to him again. His self control was already hanging by a thread after the day he’d had coupled with Jaskier’s unintentional groping.

“And you’ll bleed right through it before you even have it secured. No, it will be better if I do it. Less twisting,” Jaskier insisted as he walked forward.

Geralt didn’t listen. As soon as Jaskier was in front of him, he reached forward to take the fresh cloth. Jaskier was ready for him and quickly held it aloft, out of Geralt’s reach while seated. Geralt had had enough.

“I said I would do it. You’re just going to make it wor—unhand me!” Jaskier cried as Geralt wrapped his arm around the bard’s waist and pulled him into his lap, reaching up to grasp the cloth. 

Jaskier squirmed, waving his arm to keep Geralt from getting hold of the cloth. Geralt decided the bard had been sent by some vengeful foe to torment him. That was the only explanation for how every move the man made drove Geralt to distraction in one form or another. 

Geralt rolled them onto the cot, trying to pin Jaskier beneath him in order to reach the cloth and put and end to Jaskier’s movements. Jaskier had other ideas, and he continued to wiggle like an eel making it impossible to pin him or ignore the erection straining against his pants.

“You’re making this worse!”

“Just give me the cloth.”

“You are being ridiculous.”

Geralt grunted, finally laying all of his weight on Jaskier who could do little to buck him when Geralt far outweighed him. Reaching out, Geralt took hold of the linen with was clenched tightly in Jaskier’s fist. 

“Geralt, is this really necess—”

Geralt leaned in and captured Jaskier’s lips, succumbing to temptation. The room fell into blessed silence as Geralt pressed his tongue into Jaskier’s mouth, teasing him. 

Jaskier must have been completely shocked, because his grasp on the linen immediately fell away, allowing Geralt to pull it free. However, Geralt didn’t stop kissing Jaskier, and Jaskier seemed happy to return the kiss as well.

Jaskier’s newly freed hands found their way to Geralt’s chest as Geralt sucked his lower lip into his mouth. Blunt nails scratched down Geralt’s pecs as a breathy groan fell from Jaskier’s lips. 

Geralt kissed along Jaskier’s jaw and down his throat, nipping the skin where his neck met his shoulder. Jaskier began to squirm beneath him again but for completely different reasons. Geralt ignored it, returning his lips to Jaskier’s, before Jaskier began to ramble—or worse, sing—as he did when he was feeling literally any emotion.

Jaskier’s hands continued to map Geralt’s chest and shoulders, clinging to him when Geralt deepened the kiss. Their hips moved against each other, seeking any friction to relieve the pressure.

They were both lost in the physical pleasure of it, forgetting what they had been doing and why. Geralt savored the body beneath him, mapping it with his own hands though Jaskier was still fully dressed. His fingers tugged the bard’s shirt from his trousers, smoothing over the thick hair that covered his chest. He pushed the shirt up as far as he could without accidentally strangling Jaskier—although the idea was often tempting in far less pleasurable situations—and kissed his way down Jaskier’s chest. The man’s cries of pleasure were far more pleasing than any song he had intentionally crafted.

Jaskier’s fingers found the newer scar that had started all of this and stroked the raised skin before continuing on their way. He brought them down over Geralt’s chest again, teasing his nipples as they went. 

Geralt grunting moved back up Jaskier’s body, nipping at his lips as one finger circled Geralt’s right nipple. It was dizzyingly good. Geralt growled his pleasure as he rolled his hips roughly against Jaskier’s.

Jaskier’s touch was fleeting and moved lower. He ran his fingertips over Geralt’s taut stomach, pulling a groan from Geralt’s lips as he skimmed the edge of his trousers, teasing what was to come before moving up his sides. 

Jaskier jerked.

“G-geralt?” he stuttered, bringing his hand up between them. His wide eyes stared at the blood that covered his fingers. 

Geralt sighed.

Jaskier looked up at him then his eyes began to lose focus. “You’re...you’re bleeding,” he said, tongue sounding heavy in his mouth. It wasn’t like the man hadn’t seen him covered in blood before—his own and any number of creature’s and human’s.

“So, I am,” Geralt agreed, pushing himself up to kneel between Jaskier’s spread legs. The front of Jaskier’s outfit and a portion of his stomach was now covered in Geralt’s blood, and the bard was not taking it very well. 

“See, you should’ve let me dress that. Instead, you wrestled me and now we’re both covered in blood.” Jaskier certainly sounded indignant, but he quickly rolled and retrieved the wet cloth, bringing it up to staunch the renewed bleeding. His hands shook this time as though he was at fault for this. 

Jaskier sat cross legged in front of Geralt, holding the cloth to his side. “This is why you have so many scars. Forget the monsters, you’re a menace to yourself. Do you even know how to dress a wound?”

Geralt grunted, but he brought his hand up and rested it over Jaskier’s. While he wouldn’t say it aloud, he didn’t want Jaskier to feel any responsibility for this. The moments of pleasure had far outweighed any discomfort his felt. It was hardly even a sting really.

“I’m used to taking care of myself.” Perhaps it was an apology. Geralt really wasn’t certain. He rarely said what he actually felt to Jaskier, and he could see the way it sometimes weighed on the bard. 

“And we see how well that has worked out this evening, so now I think we should let me handle this,” Jaskier said, pulling their hands away enough to check the wound. 

Geralt didn’t twist to see whether it was still bleeding. He sighed and let Jaskier take control. 

“I bet you wouldn’t have half as many scars if you took proper care of your wounds,” Jaskier rambled as he once again cleaned the gash, seemingly having completely forgotten their previous activities. He left no room for responses this time, clearly knowing none would be forthcoming. Instead, he gave his opinion freely.

Frankly, Jaskier wasn’t wrong.

When the wound was clean and no longer bleeding, Jaskier wrapped the length of clean linen around Geralt’s torso.

“We’ll be lucky if this poor cloth makes it all the way around you. When did you get so thick?” Jaskier asked, holding the length in place with one hand while the other wrapped it about Geralt.

Geralt grunted.

“That should do it.” Jaskier smoothed down the dressing, letting his fingers wander over it as they had Geralt’s body. There was a softness in Jaskier’s expression that said he hadn’t forgotten what had transpired, but he was willing to write it off as blood loss if Geralt preferred.

“Thank you,” Geralt said softly.

“Think nothing of it. I’m always happy to help…”

Geralt leaned forward, stealing another kiss, this one soft and undemanding. 

“I was thrown. Landed on something jagged that pierced my armor. Was just a nick, but it got infected and left a scar,” Geralt said, sitting back and leaning against the wall that the cot was up against.

Jaskier looked at him in confusion for a moment before smiling and moving up the bed to sit beside him.

“Yeah, that won’t do at all. I’m thinking the bird woman with the talons will make the best song,” Jaskier said, scrunching his nose just at the thought of singing of festering wounds. 

“You still have no respect—”

“Sometimes, respect is bending the truth, so we can both eat a decent meal at the next village we pass through.” Jaskier bumped his shoulder against Geralt’s before reaching over the edge of the cot and picking up his lute.

“Hmm.”

“You’re scars aren’t what define you, Geralt. They're just a road map. They lead to some interesting tales, and discoveries. Such as the fact that you are most _definitely_ ticklish and a very good kisser, but they don't show the man you are. Just the road you took to become him...Now that should definitely go in a song.”

“I would rather it didn’t.” 

Jaskier laughed, strumming his lute until he found the right chord he wanted. He cleared his throat and began to sing. “Strength of a lion. Heart of pure gold. Lips as sinful as a—”


End file.
